


Over the Far Rise (There is Light on the Horizon)

by spirrum



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4566075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world shapes her. The loss of her family hardens her heart, the Blight her resolve, and on them she whets her blade as thoughts of vengeance sit in her mind, festering, a taint of their own for which the only cure is revenge. But the Maker has set her down a different path, and it’s not vengeance she finds at its end, but something else entirely.</p><p>Elissa Cousland didn't plan for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the Far Rise (There is Light on the Horizon)

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic has been in the works for a while, you could say. The idea has been with me since I first played through Origins, some five years ago now, but it's not until recently that I've actually considered putting all these thoughts into an actual fic. But here you have it, and I hope you'll enjoy! The setting is ingame, sometime after Redcliffe and prior to the Landsmeet. 
> 
> (A fair warning, though. If you're here for a love triangle, I'm going to have to disappoint you. Alistair might harbour something of a crush in this, but there'll be no jealousy/drama concerning the Warden's budding romance with Teagan. Also, keep in mind that though the rating will stay at a T for the first few chapters, it may be raised to M at a later point!)

The day’s trek has been long, marked by exhausted silence and the persistent glare of the sun at their backs. With Lake Calenhad behind them and the support of the mages a fledgling victory, they’re to make camp and lay plans for where to head next. Likely Orzammar, though the thought of venturing close to the Deep Roads is not a tempting one, and even less so now, with the dreams that keep her company into the late hours. But she’s a Cousland, resilient and wilful as the hard-soiled land of her upbringing, and so she keeps her concerns to herself, loath to share them with companions that already have their own burdens to carry.

She’s entertaining the thought of sinking into her bedroll, and perhaps an hour or two of undisturbed sleep (it’s not too much to ask of the Maker, surely, not after the week they’ve had), but as Fate would have it, there’s to be a while yet before she’s earned her right to rest.

They’re heading down a winding dirt road with their sights set on re-joining the Imperial Highway, when they come across an abandoned carriage.

It sits in the middle of the road, and she thinks nothing of it until they come close enough to spot the marks – splintered fissures tearing through the polished wood, and the door hanging off its hinges, creaking softly in the breeze. It’s a desolate sight, ghostly almost, with the birdsong in the trees and the sun sinking low and golden towards the treetops in the distance. 

The horses have long since escaped, if that is indeed what they have done, and when they approach with wary caution, Zevran’s hand comes to land on Elissa’s shoulder, halting her in her tracks. 

“It might be a trap,” he declares, walking past with a quick grin. “But not if I catch it.”

The rest of their company come to a stop some paces off as he sets about checking the carriage, and Elissa feels the first stirrings of wrongness in her breast. And she knows this feeling; has become intimately acquainted with it these past few weeks.

“Darkspawn,” Alistair echoes her thoughts out loud, a hand on the pommel of his sword as his gaze sweeps the quiet countryside. But nothing stirs in forest or field. The only living things beside the birds are themselves.

“They were here,” she agrees. It’s a lingering feeling, like the smell of rot that clings for days even after the food has been tossed. “They must have moved on.” She kneels, gloved fingers tracing the patterns in the dirt, tossed about like there’s been a scuffle. She’s never had a knack for tracking, but Darkspawn care little of the evidence they leave, and even she can read the story that’s unfolded, if only in snippets. There’s blood, long dried and dark, and a frown draws her brows together with an ill thought. _There are no corpses._

“Elissa.”

Zevran’s return draws her attention, and when she rises to her feet it’s to find him proffering a piece of cloth. Turning it over in her hands, it’s to a familiar crest emblazoned on a pale backdrop – a castle on a red cliff.

Someone sucks in a breath. “That’s–” Alistair begins, but whatever he’d been about to say, the words don’t make it off his tongue.

Elissa looks up. “Your uncle?”

Shaking fingers reach to take the banner, disbelief marring his usually smiling features, and she hasn’t seen him this upset since–

 _Duncan_ , she thinks, with bitter realization, and part of her already expects the words before he speaks them.

But, “Not Eamon,” he says then. “I – he would have travelled with a larger party. This–” He looks at the carriage, an innocuous sight but for the evidence of the battle that must have taken place.  

Something goes very cold within her. “Teagan,” she breathes.

Alistair shakes his head, as though to protest the very notion. “I thought he agreed to stay in Redcliffe.”

“The carriage is of a fine make,” Zevran points out. “Not below the standards of a Bann.”

“But he wouldn’t–”

“There should be bodies,” Morrigan observes then, calmly from where she’s been circling the carriage, a carrion’s grace though there’s no mirth in her light words. “Unless they were carried off. ‘tis doubtful, if he were travelling with company.”

“Unless they encountered a horde,” Elissa hears herself say, but even as she speaks the words, hope sparks in her chest. “But we would feel their presence more strongly than this if that were the case.” She looks at Alistair, as though for confirmation. “This was a small group.”

He nods, and the movement is a slow, hesitant thing. “He would have had guards. Two, at the very least. And a rider.”

“Then ‘tis likely they’ve escaped on foot,” Morrigan shrugs.  

“We should look for them,” comes the observation from further down the road. Leliana has her eyes trained on the tree-line in the distance, across the field. “There are footprints,” she adds, turning to Elissa. “They will have sought shelter in the forest.” She pauses. “There may be injured among them.”

"I agree," Wynne says, with a glance at Alistair. "The road is not so dark, that we can't afford to offer help."

They’re all looking at her now, and she feels again, keenly, the weight of responsibility that’s been placed on her shoulders. The Blight looms, like ever darkening clouds at their backs, creeping across the land, and ahead lies Denerim, and the Landsmeet. Their journey has already taken longer than planned, with several, unplanned and often fruitless detours. For all they know, this might be another, and all they’ll find for their troubles are cold corpses to bury.  

But she remembers kind eyes, and a smile that had made her heart feel like a girl’s again, for the first time since she’d awoken to find her home under siege. And she thinks of his humour, misplaced but dearly sought in their ravaged country, and what a loss it would be never to witness it again.

She looks at Alistair then, and finds in his eyes the same thoughts that must be echoed in her own – concern for his uncle, but also understanding that there might be nothing they can do, and that their duties go beyond the familial, however much it hurts to admit.

But she did not lose her whole family only to watch it happen once again to someone dear to her heart.

“We search,” she declares, after a tense lull. “The sun is getting low, and we should be making camp soon. We’ll look for them in the forest until nightfall.” She doesn’t mention what they’ll do if they don’t find them, and no one questions her.

Leliana nods. “I’ll lead,” she says, before she’s off down the slope, quick feet picking a path through the tall grass. Wynne and Zevran are the first to follow, and Morrigan with her usual calm. Sten lingers, wary eyes trained on something in the distance, before he too moves to follow.

“We’ll wait here, my lady,” Bodahn says, nodding to his cart. “If there’s anything you need, my boy and I will provide whatever help we can.”

She tries a smile, but feels her failure with how it wavers. “Hopefully we won’t be long.” She looks to the darkening skies. “Will you set up camp?”

“Not far from the road,” the dwarf assures her, and it’s with a nod that she turns back to Alistair, waiting at the bottom of the slope. The others have walked some ways towards the forest, and she grips his shoulder in passing, uncertain of how much help her words will be at this moment.

It’s a short walk to catch up with the others, having stopped where field gives way to forest. The vegetation is sparse where Leliana kneels, before it grows denser further in, curling branches and summer’s green leaves obscuring the view. The Blight has not reached this far into the country, despite the odd group of Darkspawn come crawling out of fissures in the ground. It’s deceptively pretty, for what she knows it hides.

Upon their approach, the bard rises to her feet. “There are tracks leading into the forest. Four people, altogether. None of them Darkspawn.”

Elissa breathes a sigh that’s not quite relief. “They made it this far, then.” Offering a glance to the forest, she asks Leliana, “Should we split up?”

Copper strands sway with the gentle shake of her head. “The tracks are easy enough to follow. They’ve made no effort to hide them.” She frowns, and appears to weigh her next words before speaking them. “They also suggest an injury – someone was dragged.”

She feels cold to the core, but she doesn’t have time for that now. Fear is not a liberty she will allow herself. “Alright, then we follow. Alistair?”

A look passes between them – the knowledge of what usually follows a wound from a Darkspawn weapon. It’s doubtful they were travelling with a healer, and poultices do little but prolong the affair. But he says nothing, to her or the others, only nods to show his understanding of what might await them. 

Few words are exchanged between them as they pick their way through the trees. Elissa hears the quiet conversation of their companions up ahead, but doesn’t join, caught and held by her own racing thoughts. She senses no Darkspawn in the area, but her hand is on her sword, regardless, fingers twitching with the restless drum of her heart as they pass below the ever thickening canopy. It’s getting steadily darker, the sun having set, and evening crawls along the forest floor with shadows that make her warier with each step.

It’s not a small mercy, then, when it doesn’t take them long to find what they’re looking for.

Zevran is the first to spot the fire, backtracking on light feet to deliver the message with a quiet utter, and it’s Elissa who takes the lead now, moving past the others on feet that seem sure in their step, but she doesn’t know whether it’s dread or determination that drives her.

She doesn’t make a point to conceal her approach, but their thoughts must have been elsewhere, because upon her arrival the two seated around the fire leap to their feet, swords drawn and pointed before she’s made it into the ring of the fire’s light.

“A woman?” one of them asks, though he doesn’t lower his sword, eyes taking in her armour; the blade at her hip and the shield on her back.  

“I saw your carriage,” she says, pulling on the diplomacy instilled in her by her father’s kind patience. “On the road. I recognized your banner.” She hesitates, the words sitting on her tongue. They’ve only speculations to back their suspicions, but she must try. “Teagan Guerrin – you were travelling with him?”

The two share a look, and she knows the truth in their silence. Whether or not they’ll affirm her query is another matter.

“What is your business with the Bann?”

She hasn’t touched her sword, but footsteps behind her announce Alistair’s less-than-subtle approach, and she’s tempted to draw it when the new arrival makes them startle. She’d have hissed her indignation at his lack of tact, but fear makes him reckless, and understandably so, and so she tucks her anger away. It’s not been many weeks since it had been her, fingers curled, white-knuckled around the hilt of her sword, spitting her vows of vengeance as Duncan had physically dragged her away from the burning embers of Castle Cousland.

“Is he alive?”

One of the men – the older of the two, grey streaks in his hair and beard, lowers his weapon. Recognition sparks in his eyes. “Eamon’s lad?” Then, to Elissa, “You’re the Warden from Redcliffe. Bryce Cousland’s girl.”

She sees Alistair bristle at the casual words, but he doesn’t deny them. “ _Is he alive_?” he repeats instead, voice taking on a harder edge, one she’s heard only on rare occasions.

Dark eyes shift between them, and the wary silence belongs to one weighing his options. A good vassal, if a little jumpy, but she’s known the pull of the taint so long she’s forgotten what it’s like, not to know what’s coming at you from the shadows.

“Aye,” he says at length, but the grave quality of his voice does not leave much room for joy. “Though I’m afraid he won’t be much longer.” He makes a motion for his companion to lower his sword, before he sheathes his own. “It’s better that I show you.”

He motions for his companion to stay put, before walking across the makeshift camp, away from the fire’s light towards the shadows. Before she moves to follow, Elissa nods to Zevran, lingering at their back. A command to stay, for the moment. There are no protests, and it’s with a growing sense of discomfort that she falls into step with their guide.

“Name’s Aldis,” he introduces, with a brusque efficiency that reminds her of an old horsemaster of her father’s. “Served House Guerrin some thirty years. I was aide to the late Queen, before her brother.” The introduction is unnecessary, but he’s an old sort, and not likely to forgo decorum even with the Blight on their heels.

“We were heading to Denerim – had to take the long way around Lake Calenhad, on account of Lothering being overrun. Blighters came out of nowhere. We dealt with them, but Lord Teagan took a bad wound.” The furrow of his brow speaks of remorse. “We burned the corpses, hoping their sickness wouldn’t spread, but…” He shakes his head. “I’d say it’d be the Maker’s blessing if he makes it through the night, but if it were me, a true blessing would be a quick death.”

Elissa doesn’t ask what he means. And it doesn’t take the sight of the Bann to tell her what’s wrong. She knows, by the soft _tug_ that accompanies the taint, what has happened – what is happening, even as they approach.

They’ve laid him out a good ways off from the fire, and there’s a third man kneeling by his side, who rises to greet them.

“Any change?” the man called Aldis asks.

She pegs him the rider, from his attire, and the lack of weapon at his hip. But he only spares them a passing glance, seemingly unconcerned at finding two strangers in their midst. “Only for the worse,” he says, gravely.

Something – she doesn’t know what, but something other than the taint draws her forward, makes her push past Teagan’s vassals to the man himself, ignoring the protests that arise, the startled “ _my lady_!” and the fact that she’s probably grossly overstepping some sort of line.

Then she’s kneeling, his slack wrist caught between her fingers, and through her glove she feels the leap of his pulse, however subdued.

His eyes open at her touch, likely from the suddenness of the gesture, and confusion swims in their depths as he tries to focus on her face, shrouded by the dark and with the canopy at her back.

“My lady,” he rasps then, as recognition settles with a smile, and through the pain she hears a pleasure that makes her, startlingly, laugh.   

“Happy to see me?” And the words are bold – far bolder than she’d have thought herself capable in such a setting, but then their very first meeting was bantering words while the dead walked among the living.

She doesn’t know what she expects to gain from the remark, but, “My prayers aren’t usually answered,” is what he says, the droll humour so out of place, with his sunken eyes and the slight protrusion of his veins that marks the slow crawl of the taint through his system.

Her breath is a shudder when she draws it, suddenly starved. “You prayed?” she asks, quietly, if only to keep him talking. She needs to – she needs to do _something_.

He laughs, but it turns to a cough that has his fingers tightening around hers. The rider is beside them then, a waterskin in his grip and words of admonition on his tongue, and Elissa pulls back to let him assist.

She feels awkward, lingering as she does with her idle hands, and Alistair is tense in his silence beside her. There are words to be spoken, she is sure, but he appears as much at a loss as she.

Coughing up some of the water, Teagan waves his vassal off. “Don’t waste it all on me,” he croaks, as he tries to push himself up to a sitting position. But his strength fails him, knocks his arms from under his weight, and theirs are the hands that are helping him now, idle no longer.  

“Alistair,” Teagan says, seeming to notice his nephew for the first time, and fondness chases some of the pain from his voice. “I should have known you wouldn’t be far off. A shame our paths should only cross when the night is at its d-darkest.”

Then he looks at her, that odd smile gracing his face. Sweat clings to his brow, turning his hair dark where it curls against his pallid skin. She remembers why she’d thought him handsome, and the thought is unexpected where it leaps out, from a corner of her mind rarely visited. 

“I’d h-hoped to see you again,” he tells her then, and she wonders if he might not be a bit delirious. “Just – not under these circumstances.” He doesn’t laugh now, but the smile stays, softening the lines of his face, turned hard with his agony.  

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, and – doesn’t know what for. It’s not her doing, the state of the world that would see him ambushed on the road, though the duty to save it rests on her shoulders. But grief makes her heart hurt, because there have been so many losses – so many lost among those that have made her smile, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Fingers curl around her wrist then, and she wonders idly if her thoughts are clear on her face.

“I wish I could go without regrets,” Teagan says then, and she swallows her bitter laugh, for is this what her real duty is? To witness the remorse of the dying in their final moments? She thinks of her mother, her father, and Daveth, surprisingly, a charming grin reaching out from the depths of her memory. She wonders what Teagan’s will be, but is not prepared for them, when they slip into the grave silence.

“I should have acted upon my thoughts,” he tells her. “In Redcliffe. I regretted your departure the moment you left, for I had not said – but it was too late to tell you, and not – appropriate, considering your duties. But you – you would have made me a very happy man, I think.” He grins. “F-forgive me, my lady. It would seem death makes a bold man of me.”  

Her breath stills. She thinks her heart might have, too. And she remembers, corpses shambling in the night and the delighted curve of his eyes. _He’d called her lovely_. “It has a way of doing that, yes.”

She thinks of her own bold words, recklessly offered to a man she’d never before spoken in person – talk of marriage, and clever smiles exchanged, unbecoming of their positions, their titles. But she’d found something in him, in his easy smile and his light-hearted words, and she finds herself suddenly loath to lose it.

A thought stirs – settles. Elissa swallows. With a squeeze of his fingers, she slides her hand from his. “Rest,” she says. “I will be back.” Then to Alistair, “A word?”

If he has thoughts about their exchange, the strange intimacy of their words, he looks loath to offer them. And he looks reluctant to leave his uncle’s side, but her stride is insistent, and he falls into step behind her without protest.

She leads him some paces away, out of earshot of the others. Her hands are trembling, and she wills them to still. When she’s sure no one is listening, she turns to face him – to address the look on his face that’s asking for an explanation.

“I have a – plan,” she admits, then adds with a wince, “Of sorts.”

His brows furrow, and through the despair she spots confusion. And a spark of familiar, dark humour, one that even the Blight hasn’t managed to purge. “ _Of sorts_?”

She gives him a look, hoping he’ll catch on – hoping he won’t make her voice the entirety of her plan, for her own words might convince her just how harebrained it is.

But he looks wary now, so she knows he’s at least caught onto that he probably won’t like what she’s about to say. “What are you thinking, Elissa?”

She licks her lips. It’s a bad plan. It’s a foolish plan, hatched through desperation and whatever it is that helps her get up every morning. And something else – something that sparked when he took her hand, called her _lovely_. There are so many things she hasn’t thought about that she should – that should be addressed before even considering venturing down this path, but she doesn’t have the time, and _she has to do_ _something_.

“There must be Darkspawn nearby,” she says then, meaningfully. And she doesn’t speak the words of her plan outright, but she doesn’t have to, now. The situation fills in the blanks.

Alistair balks, realization settling, along with a good dose of genuine shock. “Wait – you’re not seriously suggesting–”

He stops at the look on her face, and she draws not a small ounce of pride from the fact that whatever he finds, it is enough to render him speechless. She needs that determination, for what she is about to do.

She nods, and her heart feels calm, in the dark. 

“We’re performing a Joining.”


End file.
